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THE HASSAYAMPAR 

AND OTHER VERSE 












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‘The 

HASSAYAMPAR 

oAnd Other ^Verse 

By ED WARREN 

* »» 



LONG BEACH, CALIFORNIA 
EDWARD B. WARREN 
PUBLISHER 







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COPYRIGHT 1924 BY 
EDWARD B* WARRE 
LONG BEACH, CALIF* 



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Printed and bound in the United States of America 


4 

MAY 2 7 '24 

©C1A783422 





DEDICATED IN COMRADESHIP 


To those who chase the rainbow 
Over sea and mountain trail , 
Or think a path to freedom 
Past Convention's rigid pale. 



CONTENTS 


OPPORTUNITY -------- 

THE HASSAYAMPAR ------ 

ENCHANTED LANDS . 

A SUNDAY SCRAPE ------- 

THE BONDMEN -------- 

SOUL MATES -.- 

SLANG ---------- 

THE DIM TRAIL ------- 

EXAMPLE --------- 

WANDERLUST -------- 

RAGTIME -.- - 

SANTA CLAUS.- - 

THE COFFEE MILL ------- 

THE SCHOOL OF LIFE ------ 

THE BABBLING BROOK ------ 


9 

12 

17 

19 

22 

26 

27 

30 

34 

35 

38 

39 

42 

44 

47 


5 
















THE REAPER -------- 49 

BENDING THE TWIG - - * - - - 51 
THE MILLER --------- 54 

THE MAJESTY OF THE LAW - - - - 56 
THE PROCESS -------- 60 

OLD SCORES --------- 61 

THE CASE OF DEACON JONES - - - 64 

CIRCULATION -------- 69 

THE ARRIVALS -------- 72 

A MONTANA HALLOWE’EN - - - - 76 

THE IDEAL --------- 80 

THE HUCKLEBERRY BUNCH - - - - 82 

INCENTIVE --------- 87 

PROBATION --------- 88 

A BOY’S VIEW --------- 92 

THE PROFITEER ------- 93 

TEACHERS --------- 97 

LAUGHTER --------- 93 

UNDEN THE BANYAN ------ 101 


6 
















I 








* 













1 










OPPORTUNITY 

She paused beside the busy man 
To tell him what she saw 
Along the trail where others fail; 

But when she tried to draw 
His thoughts aside and then confide 
The golden hopes she bore, 

He shook her off with thoughtless scoff 
And drove her from his door. 


A doubting soul was passing by 
With halting pace and slow. 

And when she ran to show her plan 
He said, "Well, I don’t know;” 

Then sought advice like fools and mice 
From those as blind as he. 

Then when too late he cursed his fate. 
For out of reach was she. 


9 


OPPORTUNITY 


She also met a youthful man 
With self-assertion filled, 

Exuding lore from every pore 
And wisdom twice distilled. 

He said he couldn’t waste his time 
On every passing jade 
To hear details of fairy tales— 

He had his plans all made. 

She halted near a business man 
Who bustled forth to say, 

“Well, what’s your trick? Let’s have it quick; 
This is my busy day.” 

“You’re not the kind! You’re far too blind!” 

Said she, “You need a shock 
To make your selfish heart be still 
Before you’ll hear me knock.” 


One day she met a timid man 
From whom all joy had fled. 

In prudent fears up to his ears 
He floundered on ahead. 

But when he heard her speak the word 
That showed a brighter way 
His fear took hold and stunned him cold— 
Of course, she couldn’t stay! 


10 


OPPORTUNITY 


Ambitious rascals lay in wait 
That she might not escape, 

And in their sordid souls was sin, 

And in their reins was rape. 

But when they grasped to hold her fast 
They clutched elusive air. 

She turned her head as on she sped 
And mocked at their despair. 

At last she met a care-free man 
Who toiled with happy face, 

“And now,” said she, “I think I see 
A chance to state my case.” 

So when she came and called his name 
He answered on the spot. 

With ready heart to play his part 
All other things forgot. 

She spoke in whispers soft and low; 

He heard without demur; 

Then on she walked and planned and talked 
While he kept pace with her. 

She led him to the open door 
Where all things wait to bless 
With fortune fair all those who dare 
The mountain of success. 


11 


THE HASSAYAMPAR 

Such a cheerful pal, was Navajo Al, 

On the trail in rain or shine! 

I have seen him curst with the desert thirst, 

But I never heard him whine. 

When the grub was low we would sometimes go 
With empty bellies to bed; 

But his heart was game; he would smile the same 
Were it famine, bones or bread. 

He so often spoke of the legend joke 
From an Arizona camp, 

That, “They never can tell the truth again 
Who drink from the Hassayamp’.” 

From the tales he told of his search for gold, 

I was often led to think 

He had made his camp on the Hassayamp’ 

And had tarried there to drink. 


12 


THE HASSAYAMPAR 


On the gloomy days just his cheery ways 
Were sermons of faith and hope. 

He’d picture a view (that was partly true) 
And trim it with “Lost Mine” dope. 

Til your step grew light with a vision bright 
Of a canyon deep and strange, 

Where the high-grade ore and the float galore 
Lay over a distant range. 

He’s a handy man at the frying pan 
With pancakes, bacon or trout; 

Just done to a turn—not even a burn, 

And hot when he takes them out. 

A mulligan cook, he don’t need a book, 
(They’re no use under the sun) 

He knows by the smell when it’s doing well 
And by the taste when it’s done. 

With a powerful glass from a mountain pass 
He would search the vales below 
Til he found the source of a watercourse, 

Or springs where the tules grow. 

When the burros strayed he has often made 
A hike of many a mile; 

He’d follow their track clear to Hell and back, 
Then bring them in with a smile. 


13 


THE HASSAYAMPAR 


He will salt a mine, and can do it fine, 

For the idle rich to buy; 

Then he’ll haste to feed some comrade in need. 
Or drink with a tramp that’s dry. 

He fans into flames all the faro games 
On the days that he blows in, 

While the harlots cling to his arm to sing 
Their seductive songs of sin. 

Now our tents and things were at Cactus Springs; 

We had just returned that day 
From a dusty tramp to a nameless camp 
About twenty miles away. 

He was thinking hard when he said, “Say, pard, 
I’m planning a little game 
To get the goat of that Goldfield bloat 
For jumping the Dead Horse Claim." 

Then he made a hike to a porph’ry dike 
Just about a mile away, 

And a tunnel old that was dug for gold 
On a ledge too lean to pay; 

But he cleaned it out and he drilled about 
A couple of holes or more. 

I grinned when he spilled in the holes he drilled 
A handful of Mohawk ore. 


14 


THE HASSAYAMPAR 


With a wary eye for that expert guy 
Who was list’ning near the door, 

He said to the bunch, “I sure have a hunch 
That I’m close to high-grade ore.” 

Twas plain to be seen the victim was keen 
To bite if the strike was real. 

But A1 was no fool; he said rather cool, 
“Examine it first, then deal.” 

He drilled it a bit, then scraped out of it 
A sample before the eyes 
Of the mining man with leggings of tan. 

And the schemes so worldly wise. 

On terms they agreed; then made out a deed. 
First payment was made on same, 

That would amply square, leaving some to spare. 
The loss of The Dead Horse Claim. 

When the frosts drew near and we sought the cheer 
Of the greasewood fire at night, 

He would gush and glow about Mexico 
Til he filled me with delight. 

It was all so real with that summer feel 
My pipe fell out of my mouth, 

And I said, “Let’s git! Let us pack our kit 
And enquire which way is south ” 


15 


THE HASSAYAMPAR 


Near the camp were some with a visage glum 
From dread of the coming cold; 

All their cheerless schemes and their nightmare dreams 
Were of fuel and clothes and gold. 

But we felt no chill, our hearts were athrill 
With luring summerland lore 

As we hit the trail with a cheerful hail, 

While our hopes led on before. 

How I longed to camp on the H assay amp’ 

And drink of the waters clear; 

Where the liar’s joy is to be a boy 
Filled full of fairyland cheer! 

With a heart so light and a faith so bright 
Our souls forgive us our sins. 

And we feel no wrong as we live the song 
Of here, where heaven begins! 

It isn’t the lies that I so despise, 

If the heart with goodwill sings, 

But the claw and tooth of a deadly truth 
When it bites, and sneers, and stings. 

It’s the motive measures the good or ill 
And not the words of the song; 

A lie that is bright may often be right 
When a tattling truth is wrong. 


16 


ENCHANTED LANDS 

A lonely herder boy would flee 
To lands of fruit and flowers rare. 
Where mockingbird and droning bee 
Gave hints of love and leisure fair. 
He’d live beyond the mountain side, 
Where sunlit wavelets kiss the sand 
And pleasure-laden vessels glide 
Like Phantoms in a fairyland. 

A fisher boy with heart of fire 
Of Western life and freedom reads, 
And mingling will with warm desire 
He speaks aloud of future deeds: 

‘Til mine for gold; I’ll ride the range; 

I’ll camp with men who do and dare; 
I’ll search the canyons deep and strange, 
And loot them of their treasures rare.” 


17 


ENCHANTED LANDS 


The herder boy dwelt near the main; 

His back was bent; his hair was gray. 

He blamed the wind; he blamed the rain, 

While mending nets one stormy day. 

He sighed to see that humble spot, 

His mountain home so far away, 

Where boats and fish and nets were not, 

And life was young and work was play. 

The fisher boy had paused to rest 
Beside his latest prospect hole, 

And puffed his ancient pipe with zest 
While visions o’er his fancy stole 
Of sea gulls poised on graceful wing. 

He longed to grasp the sturdy oar 
And note the heaving billows fling 
Their spray upon his native shore. 

When years and miles hover and spread out their wings. 
They soften the outlines of time-distant things. 

When young, the far future all pleasures may hold, 
For which we yearn youthward when once we are old. 
Blame not the dim trail for our losing the way, 

But turn the love-light on the path of today, 

For working and loving will keep the heart sweet 
And send forth a glow on the trail at our feet. 


18 


A SUNDAY SCRAPE 

Twas Easter Day, and our plans we made, 
(Darby and me and Charlie McWade) 

To go to the beach and spend the day 
In proper Robinson Crusoe way. 

We swiped some eggs; what a jolly joke! 
And pipes, for we were learning to smoke. 
And in my pocket I slyly slid 
A junior version of Captain Kidd. 

We built a fire on the sandy shore. 

And talked of pirates and gold galore; 

Of waving palms and cannibal chiefs, 

And buried treasure and coral reefs. 

We gave details of what we could do 
With a clipper ship and a trusty crew; 

We swore we’d all run away to sea— 
Charlie McWade, and Darby and me. 


19 


A SUNDAY SCRAPE 


’Bout a hundred yards from where we sat 
Was a grove of sugar maples that 
Was dotted with pails, and pots and pans 
To catch the sap; so we made our plans 
To pack the juice to the beach below. 

“Let us boil it down before we go, 

Then we’ll ‘sugar off’ in style,” said we— 
Darby, and Charlie McWade and me. 


We thought that Old Grimes had gone to town, 
So we would be safe while boiling down, 
Then I was perched on a leaning tree 
Over the water where I could see; 

Then if he returned to spoil our fun 
We’d all have plenty of time to run. 

We boiled the stuff til syrup was made— 

Me and Darby and Charlie McWade. 

Oh, faithless picket! Oh, careless guard! 

With a coyote howl and running hard, 

Old Grimes came panting in hot pursuit, 

And gave us no time to taste our loot. 

When I got down from my sentry perch 
My pals were gone and me in the lurch. 

Oh, the apprehensive speed I made 
After Darby and Charlie McWade! 


20 


A SUNDAY SCRAPE 


Up to the road I led the chase, 

While close behind with crime in his face 
Came Retribution and Vengeance dire, 

When I saw a pool of muck and mire 
Fragrant and froggy with April slimes— 

Oh, what a landing for Mister Grimes! 

Who was that laughed from the wooded shade? 
Maybe Darby or Charlie McWade. 


No time to fret or parley with fear! 

The boys were gone and Old Grimes was near. 
When he clutched at me in grasping ire 
I dropped on all fours before the mire. 

Over my back he tripped with a dash, 

To rise and spit and splutter and splash. 

He favored me with a choice tirade— 

Also Darby and Charlie McWade. 

He shook his coat with a slap and slam 
And scorched his lips with many a damn. 

I paused for breath between laugh and scare, 
Then sought seclusion in thickets where 
With grinning face and shivering spine 
I disappeared in the scrubby pine. 

Oh, the pranks we hatched among us three— 
Charlie McWade and Darby and me! 


21 


THE BONDMEN 


When our golden hoard is securely stored 
How we circle the earth to buy, 

Or with coin beguile the elusive smile 
Of the vagrant sauntering by. 

What a price we’d pay for a single day 
To sit as a barefooted boy 
And dangle our toes where the river flows— 
Just fishing, with heart full of joy! 

How the spirit palls at our loveless calls! 

How our souls cry ever for air 
From the nervous pace that belines the face 
With the symbol of sulky care! 

How we’d bunch it all just to heed the call 
Of a land undeeded and wild, 

With a carefree head on a restful bed 
Just to sleep as a little child! 


22 


THE BONDMEN 


Oh, the mansions great where we live in state, 
What a prison of gilded care! 

How false are the wiles of the fawning smiles 
And the butler’s dignified air! 

When collared and cuffed and vanity-puffed 
To do a society stunt 

How we’d love to stroll where the breakers roll 
With our shirts unbuttoned in front! 

Such a burden clings to our surplus things 
That our bread seems almost a stone, 

Like a hungry hope on a picket rope 
Bound fast by the things that we own. 

How our hearts grow sore from the things we store 
Lest the rainy days prevail! 

Like a dog alone with a fragrant bone 
Attached to his comfortless tail. 

Poor Atlas of old with his task to hold 
Our troubleful world on his back 

Could never be free, no more than can we 
With ownership cares in our sack. 

In a Pullman car we may travel far 
And leave it with never a fear 

That others abuse or carelessly use 
Its comforts if we are not near. 


23 


THE BONDMEN 


It’s in guarding things that our smile takes wings 
Though they bring us pleasures so fair. 

The automobile sheds joy that is real 
But the ownership brings us care. 

We use what we need without care or greed 
Of the street, the school and the park 

For everyone shares community cares 
And each is as free as a lark. 

How we’re tied to toil and the endless moil 
For the things we can do without! 

How they hold us there til we reap despair, 

With our protest wearing us out! 

How we wreck and rust with the money lust 
As we fear with a visage grim, 

When an empty cup that a heart holds up 
Is with blessings filled to the brim! 

Oh, the years we spend and the wills we bend 
In commercial tricks of the strife! 

Like a nightmare dream, how empty they seem 
At the sunset end of a life! 

It’s the hearts that bleed for tomorrow’s need 
That with selfishness must corrode; 

If we travel light today will be bright— 

Let the hoarders carry the load! 


24 


THE BONDMEN 


When we keep the good and discard the ill 
We’ll be making the earth more fair; 

By pooling our wares and pooling our cares 
We’ll all have enough and to spare. 

The ownership clutch is what hurts so much 
And sprinkles the gall in our cup, 

But joys that we share put tang in the air 
Til the heart of the world looks up. 


25 


SOUL MATES 


Somewhere I have a sweetheart 
With a voice so clear and soft 
That in this world of music 
I have paused to listen oft; 

I hear her heart a-calling 
Like the cheery voice of spring. 
I’m sure to recognize her 
If but once I hear her sing. 

A soothing, sweet contralto 
Ever hovers near my ears, 

With all the subtle pathos 

Born of patience, mirth and tears. 
She comes from out the dreamland 
Where our truant fancies play, 
And often sings to cheer me 
When the barriers close the way. 


26 


SLANG 

I’m the word that makes you tingle 
When I whisper in your ear, 

And you’re sure to understand me, 
For my tongue is free and clear 
From the hobbles of convention 
That would have us all express 
In the chaste and chilly diction 
Of Bostonian address. 

I abbreviate the message 
Lexicographers indite. 

Then I put the ginger in it 
Til it’s hot enough to bite; 

Just to make mankind remember 
How I told them in a word 
While grammaticism fumbled 
Through a sentence to be heard. 


27 


SLANG 


When an acrobatic preacher 
Wants to tell it with a punch. 

And yet make us pay admission 
While he damns the human bunch, 
It’s of me he seeks instruction 
In the brief and brighter ways 
That impel the world to listen 
And take note of what he says. 


How I love the homeless gamins! 

Ever near to chide or cheer 
While they’re learning self-reliance 
In Convention’s school of fear. 

Oft the hoary head of learning 
Pauses with a knowing look 
Just to glean a word of wisdom 
From my living, human book. 

Pious matrons oft admire me, 

Though they hide it all the while, 
Lest they strain their laundered faces 
With a kindly human smile; 

But down in their hearts they love me 
With my pointed timely hit, 

And would wear me on their bonnets 
If the fashions would permit. 


28 


SLANG 


Oft I change the situation 
That seems rooted in despair 
Into optimistic laughter 
With a word that clears the air; 

And I almost tempt to freedom 
Slaves of precedent held fast 
To the bones and empty bottles 
In the back yard of the past. 

Many years my witty children 
Have amused the passing throng. 
While conservators pedantic 

Told the world that they were wrong, 
Til some dictionary maker 

Took them in when they were old. 
Leaving younger ones to gambol 
With the goats outside the fold. 


29 


THE DIM TRAIL 

(A true story) 

At the old mining camp of Pierce City 
In the mountains of fair Idaho 
Where the gravel of rich Oro Fino 
Gave the world so much gold long ago, 

There is many a grizzled old vet’ran 
With the lure of gold still in his heart, 

And the love of adventure and freedom 
That the big burly mountains impart. 

One of these was Jack Sprague with the whiskers, 
And two dogs always close at his heel— 

Just a trail-hardened giant of sinew, 

But from where he was loth to reveal. 

Both his dogs seemed to share his aloofness; 

They were always as quiet as he. 

Oft they came from the mountains in silence. 

And in silence departed the three. 


30 


THE DIM TRAIL 


Did he prospect for gold in the summer; 

Did he trap on the deep winter snow, 

Those two dogs were his constant companions, 
Though his grubstake was often so low 
That the dogs would catch pheasants and rabbits, 
And though hungry they never would eat 
Til they shared with him all their good fortune 
And had laid the game down at his feet. 

Now it happened one day in the springtime 
When the rivers were on the rampage, 

That old Jack hit the trail from Bald Mountain 
With his furs, when the rip and the rage 
Of the North Fork in foam and in fury 

Turned the travelers up stream from the ford 
To the place where the current was slower. 

And the raft where they all got aboard. 

But the water-soaked raft was unwieldy 
And the punting pole snapped with the stream, 
Then the craft with its crew and its cargo 
Just dissolved like a photoplay dream. 

Now the dogs with their heads to the current 
Battled on and at last reached the shore, 

But the river drew Jack to its bosom, 

And he didn't come up any more. 


31 


THE DIM TRAIL 


Now another old trapper was watching 
From the bank of the opposite shore. 

But was helpless to render assistance 
Or to make himself heard in the roar 
Of the waters, but still he was ready 
With a hand for the dogs lest they fail; 

But he knew that Old Jack was now camping 
At the far-away end of the trail. 

Just two weeks had now gone when the trapper 
Who had cared for the dogs since that day 
Came again on the trail to the North Fork 
And had camped for the night by the way, 
When the dogs searched the shore of the river 
In an effort to pick up the trail 
Of Old Jack, who had suddenly left them— 

For they didn’t know why he should fail. 

And yet one of the dogs seemed to sabe 
As in silence he gazed from the shore 
At the place where his master had vanished 
And then didn’t come back any more. 

Then he seemed to see something that called him. 
For without even shifting his eyes 
He plunged eagerly under the water 
Where he made not an effort to rise. 


32 


THE DIM TRAIL 


But they fished him out limp and unconscious, 
And at last he returned with a sigh 
From the trail that led over the border. 

And without even protest or cry 
He lay down in dejection and silence. 

To rise up the next day at the dawn 
And again go to gaze at the river, 

And the spot where his master had gone. 


With the same wistful look of enquiry 
Came the light again into his eye. 

And he seemed to know where he was going. 
For without even making a cry ’ 

He walked slowly out into the river 
To the arms of the current that drew 
A true friend to the camp where the visions 
Of good dogs and their masters come true. 


33 


EXAMPLE 

Live a song of joy and gladness 
And we’ll try to hymn the tune, 
And we’ll run with love to meet you 
Like the smiling face of June. 

But we turn with other feelings 
From the rigid righteous few 
Who would supervise our morals 
And instruct us what to do. 

If you hang your lofty precepts 
Close at home to contemplate 
And just live the finished product, 
We’ll be glad to imitate. 

For the things that make us happy 
Lead us up to Brotherhood, 

And the things that we’re admiring 
Are the things that make us good. 


34 


WANDERLUST 

It beckons from the breakers 
And the dimly distant sail, 

And from the smokey finger 
On the steamer’s fading trail. 

1 hear it in the ratlines; 

And the capstan’s clanking tunes 
Are tattling of the Yukon 
And of coral reef lagoons. 

The wild geese honk about it 
In the stillness of the night, 

En route to bright tomorrow 
On their migratory flight. 

From mountain peaks I hear it 
In the distant rumbling train, 
With whistle faintly calling 
Me to hit the trail again. 


35 


WANDERLUST 


The schoolboy hears it calling 
In the voice of early spring— 
He don’t quite understand it, 

But it makes him want to fling 
His books into the river 
And then start out to explore, 
With naked feet just itching 
For the river’s other shore. 

The floating mirage calls me 
To the desert’s silent ways, 

And gaunt suhuara fingers 
Seem to beckon in the haze. 
Again 1 see the moonlight 
Over bygone camping scenes, 
And I talk of float and pay-ore 
While my partner boils the beans. 

The treasure seeker feels it 

As he throws the diamond hitch. 
And follows where it leads him 
Though he never strike it rich; 
He burys all his failures 
With the setting of the sun 
And starts again tomorrow 
As if life had just begun. 


36 


WANDERLUST 


Sometimes the merchant hears it. 

And he longs to take a chance 
Beyond the straining city 
With its dollar-deviled dance. 

The call’s as old as Neptune 
With his tridant-pointed spear 
Of Will, and Love and Freedom 
That delivers us from fear. 

It whispered to Columbus 
And the men of forty-nine; 

To missionaries, pirates. 

And to all who had the spine 
To follow where it led them 
Over land and over sea, 

And in the school of action 

Seek 'The Truth that makes you free/' 


37 


RAGTIME 

Play the dulcet notes for dreamers 
When they ask you for a tune, 
And the lute for lazy lovers 
As they sigh beneath the moon. 
But the men of deeds and action 
Like a jingle to their song— 

Just to keep their voices merry 
And their hearts forever strong. 

It’s the soul within the cymbals 
When the circus riders come; 

It’s the courage in the soldier 
When he hears the martial drum; 
And the tune that makes the dancers 
Measure time without a flaw, 

With their troubles all forgotten, 

Is old “Turkey in the Straw.” 


38 


SANTA CLAUS 

Twas Christmas Eve; the westbound train was loaded; 

The goodwill spirit brooded o’er with cheer, 

While homing-hearted men with parcels laden 

Reached out in thought to touch the greeting near. 
Their far-off seeing eyes were shining gladness 
On visioned firesides waiting those who roam, 
Aglow with dimpled smiles and childish prattle, 

And all that feeds the sacred fire of home. 

They paused at every little town and hamlet 
To let some happy Santa Claus alight. 

Then, when the homing birds had all departed 
The unhomed ones curled up to face the night. 

A silent man reviewed again the vision 
Of days before the heavy hand of fate 
Had taken back the chubby boys she gave him 
And then in treason lured away his mate. 


39 


SANTA CLAUS 


Across the aisle behind their widowed mother, 

Two ringlet-headed girls of active brain 

Sought eagerly to have her solve the problem 
“Would Santa Claus know they were on the train; 

Then how could he come in without a chimney? 

I fink he’ll truly come tonight, don’t you? 

I want a doll wif curly hair and ribbons, 

Dat shuts her eyes; and choclut candy too.” 

Unsatisfied with her evasive answers 
They closed their eyes til she had reached her seat, 

Then plottingly they put their heads together 
And slyly slipped a stocking from their feet. 

With reaching arm and one white limb uncovered 
They each hung up a stocking on the hook; 

Then cuddled close in sweet undoubting slumber. 
Like nestlings in a sheltered cozy nook. 

The man looked on with sympathetic pleasure, 

Then conjured up their heavy hearts forlorn 

When they should wake to ruthless disappointment 
Awaiting at the dawn of Christmas morn. 

He saw their trusted idol fall and shatter, 

While sobbing Will held back their pent up tears; 

He heard a voice within his heart commanding: 

“They shall not lose their faith of childhood years.” 


40 


SANTA CLAUS 


He rose in haste and sought the train conductor 
To have him wire an order down the line 
For dolls, and other things, “To be delivered 
Aboard this train now coming in on time.” 

When they had reached the end of that division 
A messenger came swiftly in the door, 

And in his ample arms he seemed to carry 
The trimmings of a fairyland and more. 

He filled the stockings full to overflowing 
And placed the dolls beside them on the seat; 

In fear lest he awake them or the mother. 

He placed the other parcels near their feet. 

Again he took his seat beside the window 
Determined he’d a Christmas vigil keep, 

But when his eyes grew heavy with the watching 
He slipped away on happy dreams to sleep. 

When daylight came the little tots awakened 
And rubbed their eyes to find out where they were, 
Then when they saw the toys and dolls beside them 
Their peals of Christmas gladness filled the air. 

“He turned! He turned! I knowed he’d turn and find us, 
For Santa knows it when we go away.” 

But Oh, the lonely heart that did the giving, 

How warm it felt in solitude that day! 


41 


THE COFFEE MILL 

There’s a welcome cheer in the call I hear 
From the kitchen coffee mill. 

Such a happy sound as the mill turns round 
With its grist of home good-will! 

It tattles of toys and of prattling boys. 

And a mother’s morning hail; 

And of buckwheat cakes with syrup that takes 
Us back to the fledgling trail. 

Such a homey sound as the mill turns round! 

You know how it makes you feel; 

How you shut your eyes to visualize 
The scene on memory’s reel. 

“It’s all ready, John, set the coffee on; 

And, Maggie, set up the chairs” 

Let’s tarry a bit! Oh, the joy of it, 

To eat without any airs! 


42 


THE COFFEE MILL 


Such a cozy sound as the mill turns round! 

How we stretch our lazy legs; 

How we toast our toes while the baby crows 
And the Mis’ess frys the eggs. 

It’s a cheerful prayer on the sunrise air. 

In tune with the hand that turns; 

And it lights the way for the coming day 
While the fire of freedom burns. 

Such a prosp’rous sound as the mill turns round! 

The world a-treatin’ us fine; 

And the cows look well and the crops foretell 
A bounteous harvest time. 

Don’t you hear it cluck? Don’t it say, “Good Luck/’ 
As we start another day? 

Don’t our spirits bounce when the hens announce 
Results of their morning lay? 

Such a kindly sound as the mill turns round! 

The same wherever you roam. 

With plenty it rings and of peace it sings; 

It’s the morning call of home. 

It’s tone is the same in wealth or in fame, 

In shack, or in gilded hall; 

There’s a common ground in that grinding sound; 
It’s a universal call. 


43 


THE SCHOOL OF LIFE 

The mystic alchemists of old 
Who changed the baser things to gold 
But spoke a symbol of the law 
Of transmutation that they saw 
Could consciously be used by man 
To help The Great Creator’s plan 
That leads us from unconscious dust 
Up through the school of strife and lust, 
That we might grow to choose and will, 
And learn alone to climb the hill 
Of Vibratory Law supreme 
That speaks through all creation’s dream, 
From stone, and life within the sea, 

To plant and man and things to be. 


44 


THE SCHOOL OF LIFE 


The lower school of concrete things 
In tones of weight and outline sings, 

Til wind and frost, and sun and rain 
Have raised them to a higher plane 
Where they organic rates assume 
To speak in color and perfume. 

The joy of living now begun, 

The roses turn to face the sun, 

And dew-desiring lillies fair 
Lift up their chaliced lips in prayer; 
While pines that bend before the breeze, 
And waving plants beneath the seas 
Foretell that they will yet be free 
To move at will o'er land and sea. 

Then what is done by force of fate 
Becomes a habit soon or late; 

And this in turn develops will 
To seek the good and bear the ill. 

But Will alone is always blind 
Until it lights the torch of Mind. 

Then mind-directed will creates 
The things that Life anticipates; 

Til with the voice of rock and flower 
Are heard the tones of harnessed power 
In moving things upon the earth 
That bring us good, and grief and mirth. 
Then Mind and Will lead into strife 
About the needful things of life. 


45 


THE SCHOOL OF LIFE 


For Mind can never reach the heights 
Without a heart that feels the rights 
Of other units in the school 
Where next we learn The Golden Rule. 
Because unguided by the heart 
We soon would learn destructive art. 

And tread beneath our selfish feet 
All opposition that we meet, 

And live the law that makes of life 
A battlefield of hungry strife 
Where but the strongest could survive 
And leave at last but one alive 
Among his fallen foes to stand 
A final victor in the land. 

But ere this law has run its course 
A higher Law will be in force. 

From sorrow-softened hearts will spring 
A sympathy that man will sing 
In soundless tones of music, and 
That all that lives will understand— 
When in the heart this tone is heard 
The tongue may speak The Master’s Word. 


46 


THE BABBLING BROOK 


I have loved a mountain streamlet 
Where the huckleberries grow, 

And she’s smiling, heart-beguiling 
As she whispers soft and low, 

“Don’t you see the purling eddy 
Where the speckled beauties lie? 

Don’t be wishing! Let’s go fishing! 

Cut a pole and cast a fly! 

“Never mind the dreary tunnel; 

Come today and be my pard. 

Oh, the devil! On the level, 

It don’t pay to work so hard. 

Don’t you hear the pheasant drumming 
In the thicket near the shore? 

He don’t hurry; he don’t worry, 

And his heart is never sore.” 


47 


THE BABBLING BROOK 


O that careless calling gurgle 
As she frolics in the sun! 

“Come and see me! Come and see me! 
For there’s nothing can be won 

Til you leave your doubts behind you 
And forget yourself at will. 

Come awhistling! I’ll be listening, 

Bid your troubled heart be still!” 

See her flaunt that foamy feather 
Where the smoother waters lie! 

How she’s flirting, care-diverting, 

With a challenge in her eye! 

Then she sprinkles notes of music 
That the canyon echoes know, 

While she’s luring, joy-assuring— 

What’s the use! I’ll have to go! 


48 


THE REAPER 

Go wake the keeper at the gate! 

The reaper comes with sword of fate 
To pierce the nation’s stony heart 
With warfare’s keen relentless dart, 

And halt the cold progressless tread 
Of peoples by tradition led 
Through depths of poverty and pain, 
While rulers waste their unearned gain. 

Before he fills the earth with joy 
He will like noxious weeds destroy 
The rule of gold and priests and kings 
That fills the earth with cumbrous things. 
Our golden calves and temples fair, 

And man-made laws that hold us where 
We throw a cloak about the heart 
To play a hungry villian’s part. 


49 


THE REAPER 


Turn not to grieve like faithless Lot 
O’er burning tares in pride begot! 
Mourn not the loss of concrete things 
Where only greed and power sings! 

Do not more friendships compensate 
The City by the Golden Gate, 

And bonds of brotherhood abide 
With those who suffered side by side? 

The world no longer shall abide 
The lash of power and scorn of pride, 
Nor suffer wealth to reap and own 
The things the patient poor have sown. 
Where want and plenty correlate 
They smother love and cherish hate 
And make us long for much display 
While envy eats the heart away. 

When rule of kings and dollars dies 
From out the wreck will Phoenix rise, 
And gentle as a mother’s hand 
Sow blessings on a thirsty land. 

Prepare the ground! Go set the stage! 
Aquarius comes, the noble age, 

With flowing ewer that’s never spent 
And knee in human kindness bent. 


50 


BENDING THE TWIG 

There’s a hoary superstition 
That the duties of a son 
To the loving pair that rule him 
Til his manhood has begun, 

Should include the blind adoption 
Of their narrow-visioned plan 
That procrastinates the progress 
Of a knowledge-seeking man. 

It’s the boy that never wanders 
Far from home, but plays the part 
That his parents map out for him 
That must feel within his heart 
Many egotistic tempests 
From parental wisdom fed, 

Til no other source of knowledge 
Finds a welcome in his head. 


51 


BENDING THE TWIG 


They of rolling stones remind him, 
That they never gather moss; 
Then applaud his moss-back uncle 
Who is mourning o’er the loss 
Of the dime he gave the deacon 
When he thought it was a cent, 

As he carries swill to porkers 
With his back in penance bent. 

They quote the homesick prodigal, 
That a boy who dares to roam 
Has days of care and husks for fare, 
And at last comes slinking home. 
Thus the daily grind will hold him 
Til his youthful fire has flown 
And he dare not think of starting 
Any venture of his own. 

If they mention to him often 
To “Let well enough alone,” 

And to lay away his nickels 
Til he has enough to loan, 

He will soon become so saving 
He’ll begrudge himself his meals, 
While a host of little worries 
Will be snapping at his heels. 


52 


BENDING THE TWIG 


Every painful pious preacher 
Will admire his toilsome days, 

And the sewing-circle gabsters 
Compliment his steady ways; 

While conservatives and cowards 
Strew his path with stumblingblocks 
Of inherited opinions 
Most severelv orthodox. 

When his family gathers round him 
Just before he leaves the earth, 

At the Pearly Gates he’ll rally 
To enquire what pork is worth. 
When he hears the angels singing 
On that bright celestial morn 
He’ll come butting in the chorus 
Singing Dollars, Hogs and Corn. 

There’s a store of living wisdom 
For the travel-loving heart 
That the home-deluded parent 
Is unable to impart. 

There’s a poise that comes by treading 
Many paths of love and strife 
That will make us better players 
On the harp of human life. 


53 


THE MILLER 

He stands by the hopper a thousand years 
And marks the time but a day; 

In the mills of the gods he grinds the grist 
That history stores away; 

He grinds the failures humanity makes 
And mingles them with the good, 

Then leaves us to find with the heart and mind 
The secret of brotherhood. 

The gold of Mammon, the helmet of Mars, 
Promoters of pride and pain; 

The tainted ermine, the clerical robe, 

He grinds with the common grain. 

When the hour falls no penitent calls 
Will move the guard at the gate. 

The false and the true, they must all pass through 
His hands to the mills of fate. 


54 


THE MILLER 


At crest of the tide of Babylon’s pride 
Like a sentinel he stood; 

Then left but a name of departed fame, 

Lest evil outgrow the good. 

He saw with a smile the banks of the Nile, 

And scope of Egyptian sway. 

He scattered the race! Sowed sand on the place 
Where bones of the Pharaohs lay! 

But barren the race and barren the place 
Both must lie fallow an age; 

Til the soil outlives and the world forgives 
The blot on history’s page. 

When the hurt we feel from the tyrant’s heel 
Is lost in forgetfulness, 

Then a nobler race in a chastened place 
Will prosper, and love and bless. 

But the ripest harvest he’s grinding now 
From Mammon’s Piscean store; 

And he’ll grind it clean for his eyes have seen 
Aquarius at the door. 

The exploiter’s power he’ll grind in an hour 
In the twilight of the kings. 

For he’s grinding fine, and he grinds on time 
The grist that the cycle brings. 


55 


THE MAJESTY OF THE LAW 

(These events are said to have actually taken place in 
the court of Judge Ben Lindsey at Denver.) 

When the court was in midst of a session 
And the lawyers held forth pro and con; 

And the bailiff tiptoed with discretion, 

And the newspaper men scribbled on. 

Just a barefooted boy thrust his head in 
Past the door of that sacred domain, 

Said he wanted to speak, just a minute, 

To the Judge, and to him he’d explain. 

Now the bailiff was shocked into action 
When the urchin had dared to intrude. 

To disturb the profound suit of Dollars 
Versus Dollars was shockingly rude. 

“We will now have recess a few moments,” 

Said the Judge in the midst of the case, 

“I must help this young man with his problem 
That has marked so much care on his face.” 


56 


THE MAJESTY OF THE LAW 


Then he beckoned the newsboy up to him, 
While the lawyers looked on with dismay, 
And he bowed down his head in attention 
While he heard what the lad had to say. 
With a love that is born of true friendship, 
And a confidence almost divine. 

Spoke the orphan boy as to a father 
As he started his case to define. 

“At the corner where I sell my papers 
The policeman who used to be there 
Let me sell to the folks on the street cars 
From the steps, if I always took care 
To keep out of the way and not holler, 

And not crowd myself in at the door— 

But they’ve transferred that other policeman 
And the new one won’t let me no more.” 


Then the judge asked with solicitation, 

“Now just what would you have me to do 
To relieve the constrained situation 

That’s between that policeman and you?” 

“I just thought you might write an injunction,” 
Said the boy with a serious air, 

“That would make him sit up and take notice, 
And he’d know that he had to play fair.” 


57 


THE MAJESTY OF THE LAW 


Now the judge thought a moment in silence, 
Then he turned to the Clerk of the Court, 
“An injunction blank, please/’ said His Honor, 
Then he wrote of the newsboy’s report 
To the officer, asking his friendship, 

And his co-operation and care 
For the newsboy who sold on his corner 
And who trusted all those who played fair. 


Just the bold printed letters “Injunction" 

Gave the missive an aspect severe 
As he handed it down to the newsboy 

With the words, “This will keep the track clear." 
Then the boy left as proud as old Caesar, 

While a purpose held eye and moved limb, 

Til he found the police on the corner 
And had served the injunction on him. 

When the officer saw the injunction 
He was somewhat disturbed for awhile 
Til the motive flashed out in the missive, 

Then his face lighted up with a smile. 

The policeman was really kindhearted; 

He had merely neglected to view 
The event from the newsboy’s position, 

But he now understood—Yes, he knew. 


58 


THE MAJESTY OF THE LAW 


Then he stooped to shake hands with the newsboy 
As a token of friendship, and say, 

“From now on you and I will be allies,” 

And two lives became brighter that day. 

The policeman now says of the newsboy, 

“He will surely make good in the fight,” 

And the newsboy tells all of the kiddies, 

“The new cop on the corner's all right.” 


59 


THE PROCESS 

It is fear that ever whispers 
“Just let well enough alone,” 

And that fits eventless places 
To the coward and the drone. 

But the steel that drills the granite 
Must endure the furnace heat 
And the plunge in chilly waters 
Ere its temper is complete. 

So our victories and failures 
At the kindly hand of fate, 

Help us train our vagrant motives 
To that bright and happy state 
Where the heart is ever singing, 

Though the wind blow north or south, 
And a smile is ever clinging 
To the corners of the mouth. 


60 


OLD SCORES 

(A True Story) 

On the field of Chancellorsville ’twas night, 

When a colored boy with a lantern bright, 

Peered into each face where the fallen lay 
Til he found his master who wore the gray. 

He carried the wounded warrior back 
To the rear of the lines, and a humble shack; 

Then he bound his wounds, and he soothed his pain, 
While he mothered him. back to health again. 

With a kindly heart he would cook and plan 
Just to lure the taste of the wounded man. 

With solicitation he’d often say, 

“Now what will you have for dinner today?” 

One day when the patient was feeling bright 
With returning symptoms of appetite, 

He said, “1 am hungry enough to eat 
Some baked sweet potatoes with turkey meat.” 


61 


OLD SCORES 


In the twilight shadows at close of day 
The colored boy vanished and stole away 
To forage in garden, and coop and pen. 

Til he found the “sweets” and a turkey hen. 

With a conscience clear and a rythmic stride 
He chuckled and ran to his master’s side 
Where he laid his toothsome loot on the floor. 
While both of them laughed til their sides were sore. 

Many years had shuffled along the path 
Of a colored man, when he faced the wrath 
Of a frowning judge in a court one day, 

Who asked if he had anything to say 
Before he was sentenced to pay a fine 
For stealing chickens; or maybe he’d sign 
A commitment giving him thirty days 
In which to consider his lawless ways. 

“Now Judge,” said the colored man, “If you will 
Just come back with me to Chancellorsville 
Where a colored boy with you on his back 
Strove on in the night til he reached his shack; 
Then when you thought you were able to eat 
He foraged a turkey and taters sweet. 

If foragin’ turkey is right,” said he, 

“Den chicken’s de same, for dat boy was me.” 


62 


OLD SCORES 


In silence the judge let the years roll back 
To gaze at the field and the humble shack, 

Til his eyes grew dim with the scene remote. 
And something rose like a lump in his throat. 
His official dignity came at last 
As he blew his nose with a warning blast: 
“I’ll fine you a hundred dollars/’ said he, 
“And pay it myself. Now you may go free/’ 


63 


THE CASE OF DEACON JONES 

The good Deacon Jones with a dignified air, 
Declaimed in a manner some people call prayer; 

In which the good brothers seemed all to accord— 
A sort of advisory board to the Lord. 

He spoke of the evil that other men do— 
Admitting the Lord might have known of it, too, 
And offered suggestions, as good deacons can, 

For saving the souls of degenerate man 
Regretting the trend of the people today 
To stray from the churchy and orthodox way. 


64 


THE CASE OF DEACON JONES 

His tones filled the air like a chorus of birds. 
While serving the Lord with a banquet of words. 
The platitudes rolled from his generous mouth. 
Like light fleecy clouds on a breeze from the South. 
At last he relaxed from an eloquent strain, 

That took his voice up to high C, and again, 

He let it glide back to a monotone where 
He drew in a breath to repeat the Lord’s Prayer. 

And when he came to where he said, 

“Give us this day our daily bread,” 

A Voice from deeps of Silence came 
And called aloud the deacon’s name; 

And spoke the tones of living fire 

That sound when Truth has struck the lyre. 

“Thou foolish man with senses dead, 

Why comest thou to Me for bread? 

Is not the land with plenty filled; 

With grape, and grain, and workmen skilled 
To cunningly transform the things 
Within the earth, and make them wings 
To speed thee on the path of Good 
That leads to Human Brotherhood? 


65 


THE CASE OF DEACON JONES 


“Since when have I appointed thee 
An arbiter of destiny? 

The cattle on a thousand hills/ 

The forests, mines, and all that fills 
The earth with Nature’s bounty free 
I gave to man, and not to thee. 

Does not the muzzle still adorn 
The ox that treadeth out thy corn’? 
Go feed thy brother’s little boy 
And give him back his childhood joy; 
And save him from that early doom 
That haunts the profit-making loom. 

“Thou proud, ungrateful Pharisee, 
Thy costly robes offended Me 
When just beyond, with weary feet, 

A widowed sister crossed the street 
Unwelcomed at the temple door— 

So humble was the garb she wore. 
My church was never meant to be 
A home for wealth and luxury. 

But just a loving company 
As graced the shores of Galilee. 


66 


THE CASE OF DEACON JONES 

“Disband those liv’ried slaves of strife 
Ye own to threaten human life, 

And help you profit by the fear 
That cruel war is lurking near; 

And cease to train your boys to slay, 

With proud destruction holding sway; 

Or lead a deadly chase with joy 
To kill some foreign mother’s boy. 

Your noblest sires in war are slain, 

While profiteers at home remain 
And ply their trade with conscience cold 
To rob the weak and starve the old. 

And blight the land with graft that leads 
To darker days and darker deeds. 

“Now Jones, my son, think not because 
I bid thee go and keep My laws, 

I would not gladly plead thy case 
If thou wert in thy victim’s place; 

To thee 1 give the task to right 

Thy brother’s wrongs with all thy might. 


67 


THE CASE OF DEACON JONES 


‘Then freely use the bread I gave, 

Nor need you either hoard or save. 

When you have learned to live in peace— 
‘Seed time and harvest will not cease; 
When competition’s curse is dead, 

No man need call to Me for bread.” 


68 


CIRCULATION 

The draught that’s most refreshing from 
Unbridled streams is drawn; 

Not from impounded waters that 
Repine in scum and spawn. 

Our happiest occasions come 
Uncurbed by fear or lust, 

But hover near to bring us cheer 
When we have learned to trust. 

The bloom that paints the cheek of youth, 
The eye that with it glows, 

But manifest the law of zest 
Where blood unhampered flows. 

The weight of years with all their tears 
Come when we try to mould 
And regulate to rigid fate 

Our loves, our friends, our gold. 


69 


CIRCULATION 


The voice that’s most caressing when 
It’s fetterless and free 
May fret and strain against the chain 
That binds it close to thee. 

Our most alluring virtues from 
Our freedom are begot, 

Beyond the interfering of 
The mandate "Thou shalt not.” 

I he mind that plans and parries in 
Its efforts to assist 
In God Almighty’s business will 
Be sure to feel the twist 
Of human limitations when 
It finds it cannot play 
To meet a case with easy grace 
From plans of yesterday. 

The gold that carries gladness must 
Escape the static hoard 
Where Joy is slain by greed of gain 
And future fears are stored. 

The heart that’s freed will not impede 
The stream where blessings flow. 

But give and take the things that make 
The happy soul to grow. 


70 


CIRCULATION 


The loves that lilting linger are 
The loves we leave most free; 

Not those we brand and then command 
To smile when we decree. 

The things we hug the hardest are 
The things that wound the heart, 
And joy that clings the closest is 
The joy that’s free to part. 


71 


THE ARRIVALS 

Two boys set out to reach the goal 
Where mortals sometimes stand 

With wealth of gold, or laurel crown, 
Or scepter in the hand. 

The wreckage of aborted hopes 
Along their pathway lay. 

And none were near to give them cheer 
Or guide them on the way. 

The elder forced his way ahead 
With elbow-thrust and heel 

Until he passed the lower rungs 
Where weaker mortals reel; 

He rode the prancing steed success 
And held aloft his head; 

He spurned the poor beneath his feet 
Who brought him daily bread. 


72 


THE ARRIVALS 


He gloried in his great success 
So early in the race, 

Til soaked with pride he could not hide 
He set a reckless pace; 

He bought a car and stocks at par 
And joined The Plunger’s Club; 

His wife sat near with haughty sneer 
For girls who work or scrub. 

One day an ague chilled his heart, 

His prancing steed went lame; 

The doctors swear his margins were 
Too short to play the game. 

Then came the blast; his case was past 
The point where grief atones; 

The wolves broke in with greedy grin 
To finish up his bones. 

The younger boy had fumbling failed, 
But still he’d strive and try; 

He did not seem to catch the step 
Of victors passing by. 

He’d often sink at failure’s brink 
And sometimes hesitate. 

Then rest awhile and force a smile 
To meet the rod of fate. 


73 


THE ARRIVALS 


Disaster left him bleeding in 
The valley of defeat; 

He just let go and waited for 
“The rest that is so sweet 
He dreamed he heard a siren voice 
That soothed his fevered brain: 

She sang of battles yet unfought 
And whispered, “Try again/' 

He rose and slowly bound his wounds 
And hummed the siren’s strain 
While cautiously he started in 
To plan a new campaign. 

His bygone failures marched before 
To mark each pit and snare. 

Til ancient hopes revived again 
The will to do and dare. 

The hill was steep; the trail was bad; 

He oft relaxed in play 
Or spoke a cheering word to those 
He passed along the way. 

At last he reached the castle gate 
His struggles at an end; 

The goal was won, yet there were none 
So poor but called him friend. 


74 


THE ARRIVALS 


The tried and true rejoiced with him 
For failures he survived, 

And Dame Success stepped forth to bless 
The day that he arrived. 

In gratitude he turned again 
With happy smile and kind 
To face the rear where rose the cheer 
Of those he left behind. 


75 


A MONTANA HALLOWE’EN 

It was Hallowe’en and the boys were out 
And patiently changing the signs about, 

(In a mining camp, in their Western joys 
All the boys are men and the men are boys) 

When the women thought they would do their bit 
By adding some spice to the fun of it; 

Oh, the prank they plotted and carried out 
On some maiden ladies, prim and devout! 

There are jokes that a man would think not right 
To play on the girls by day or by night; 

But when women march with a purpose clear, 

Woe be to the man who would interfere! 

So we stood aloof while they made their play, 

At a most respectful distance away; 

And one fellow said, that none could hire him 
To harass ladies so proper and prim. 


76 


A MONTANA HALLOWE’EN 


Then with silent tongues and with cautious feet 
(Just imagine silence when women meet!) 

They carried a ladder both long and light 
And a cotton banner rolled up so tight, 

To the hill where a modest building stood— 

A temple of bachelor-maidenhood— 

The ladder they placed ’gainst the house so trim 
Of the maiden ladies proper and prim. 

Then a woman that a mouse could affright 
Climbed up that ladder without any light!— 

The banner she spread like a rising sail, 

(But of course, no woman could drive a nail! 

Screw hooks were better, so what was the use, 

When they knew that pounding would raise the deuce!) 
Oh, why should women delight to annoy 
Those dressmaking maidens demure and coy? 

We wanted to see how the banner read, 

But the night was dark and the women said, 

“Just leave it alone and wait for the sun; 

Then all get up early and see the fun!” 

The women went tittering down the street. 

With well-covered faces and hasty feet. 

(To think that women, would take such a spree 
To ruffle the calm of those spinsters three!” 


77 


A MONTANA HALLOWE’EN 


When the maids came out with the morning glow 
They saw just across on the street below 
A grinning crowd of both women and men. 

They couldn’t see anything wrong, for when 
They felt and found out that their skirts were hooked. 
And their hats on straight, they just stood and looked. 
(If they’d just look up at that banner there!— 

I wonder if bachelor-maidens swear!) 

But one of them screamed as she looked and saw 
The banner “Men Wanted,” and then—Oh, pshaw! 
Just think of pullets with plumage awry 
Jumping the side of a barn for a fly! 

“How many d’you want?” some sinner sung out, 

Then the women joined and echoed the shout; 

No redder faces will ever be seen 
On those languid ladies so lank and lean! 

They jumped and they clawed in their frantic haste; 
Then paused while each of them pulled down her waist, 
Then jumped again like the hen for the fly— 

But what was the use! The thing was too high! 

Then one of them said, “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, 

Let’s go to the woodshed and get the rake!” 

They yanked it down, then they sped up the path— 
Those bachelor maidens in righteous wrath. 


78 


A MONTANA HALLOWE’EN 


For many a week—so the women say— 

Those maidens stayed in the house through the day. 
They’d hardly answer the telephone bell 
For fear some joker would give them—Well, 

A loveless truth that is hard to deny 
Is enough to make any maiden shy! 

In solitude only they felt secure— 

Those bachelor ladies prim and demure. 

Though the grins and leers and temper and tears 
Have all been dissolved in the fading years, 

I will smile again when that sign is seen, 

And recall a Montana Hallowe’en, 

To imagine three frantic figures there 
Assaulting the thing with rake in the air. 

I fear such visions will ever persist 
As long as bachelor maidens exist. 


79 


THE IDEAL 

The captain of thy bark am I, 

Whom Youth defends with flashing eye 
When rigid Age would hold them back 
To Custom’s narrow, beaten track 
Where Inspiration’s voice is hushed; 
And early hopes are early crushed 
Beneath the slow, eventless tread 
Of leaders by tradition led. 

Parental law on riches bent 
(The father of thy discontent) 

Oft sends thee forth to bootless chase, 
Until I teach thee to retrace; 

Oft binds a boy with books about 
To make a lawyer of a lout. 

While poet tuned to lyric fine 

Must drive the plow or herd the swine. 


80 


THE IDEAL 


Without me toil unstrings the lyre 
O'er graves of hope and youthful fire 
Till haste begets a nervous pace, 

And sulky care belines the face. 

Like chargers tethered on the grass 
Thy bounds are set; ye may not pass 
From office-desk, or farm, or mart, 

Or household cares that break thy heart. 

Leader am I, in vain pursued 
By those with old regrets imbued; 

Or those who fear some coming day 
Might take the things they have away. 
How can I lead to pastures green 
If future cares obstruct the scene; 

Or guide thy bark to joy away 
With anchor deep in yesterday? 

My chart I limit to today; 

I the compass; I point the way 
That leads up out of sore distress 
To brighter days of happiness. 

Awaiting in thy heart I stand 
And long to lead thee by the hand 
To health, and hope, and pleasures free. 
Cast off thy load and follow me! 


81 


THE HUCKLEBERRY BUNCH 

It was nearly night when I came in sight 
Of their Rhodes Creek camping place; 

But welcome was there to tingle the air, 

And it shone from every face. 

They said, “Take a bite with us here tonight 
And let other tasks go by.” 

(I never have yet evaded a bet 
On chicken fixin’s and pie.) 

To see Teddy look at the bites I took! 

And Mrs. Lamont stood by, 

And Michels was there with long braided hair 
While I surrounded the pie. 

We talked and we ate till the hour was late— 
Too late to travel at night. 

I made me a lair of pine needles where 
I slept till the morning light. 


82 


THE HUCKLEBERRY BUNCH 


When Wilbur came back with trout in his sack 
And they were fried to a turn— 

(Unless you’ve been there and tasted the fare 
You sure have something to learn.) 

To see him and Babe and Ted how they played— 

(I see them yet as a dream) 

They tussled and tugged and wrestled and hugged 
Like a bear-cub football team. 

There’s a bug comes out to forage about 
As the evening campfire glows; 

Though no song he sings, the odor he brings 
Just puts a crimp in your nose. 

When you squeeze him hard he plays his trump card— 
You think you’ve opened a can 
Of old rotten teeth, or something beneath 
The modest mention of man. 

Before we found out this bug was about 
We looked through our luggage where 
We dared to suspect or feared to detect 
Some source of polluted air. 

In silence so thick ’twould stir with a stick 
Each glanced with a sidelong eye. 

Why shouldn’t we shout to find the bug out? 

We now had an alibi. 


83 


THE HUCKLEBERRY BUNCH 


We shipped all our things up to Sardine Springs 
By mule the very next day, 

Where berries were thick, and easy to pick, 

And where we wanted to stay. 

Now at Sardine Springs are rabbits and things 
That play and romp through the night. 

(On the midnight air they might be a bear— 

At least we fancied they might.) 

To nourish our fears we strain with our ears 
Till whispers ring like a shout; 

And the shadows creep while we’re half asleep, 
And the campfire dozes out. 

The women made clear that they felt no fear, 

And yet they all had a hunch 
They’d feel more secure and would sleep more sure 
If I’d sleep nearer the bunch. 

So I moved my bed; we lay head to head. 

And thought our troubles were o’er, 

But when morning came I learned to my shame 
The women all heard me snore 
With a snort and puff and roar loud enough 
To silence a thunder storm. 

I hope they forgive, for sure as I live 
I’ll do my best to reform. 


84 


THE HUCKLEBERRY BUNCH 


There’s a hornet’s nest near the mountain crest, 
Mrs. Michels found it out; 

She stepped on the thing! They set out to sting, 
And put the whole bunch to rout. 

She jumped like a doe—got stung just below 
The knee, but clung to her pail; 

Then Wilbur and I and Babe scurried by 
Like rabbits hitting the trail. 


On a home-made sled with berries and bed 
And all our stuff on the load 
We moved from the ridge to Rhodes Creek bridge 
Down a rocky mountain road. 

Though the sled was full ’twas a down-hill pull 
And we hitched the whole darn crew 
In a tandem team, like a freighter’s dream, 

And then we came sailing through. 

Then Charley drove out and showed us about, 
And brought Mrs. Carey, too; 

For he seemed to know where big berries grow, 
And soon our fingers were blue. 

Then he and his wife and we with a knife 
Cleared a space to turn his car, 

While his children three sat under a tree 
And viewed the scene from afar. 


85 


THE HUCKLEBERRY BUNCH 


Oh, that sudden shower in that midnight hour! 

"The tent'!” we cried in despair. 

“It’s under our bed,” so the women said. 

"Then let’s yank it out from there!” 

In full evening dress like flags in distress 
Our garments fluttered and flared, 

But up rose the tent and in it we went 
Like gophers suddenly scared. 

It’s the chaff and cheer of companions near 
That puts the pep in today, 

Till our cares take flight and the eye grows bright, 
And all of our work seems play. 

It’s the untamed hills that our spirit thrills; 

From flowers we learn how to smile. 

While the gurgling streams will mother our dreams 
Of the things in life worth while. 


86 


INCENTIVE 


A nimble hound pursued a deer 
Where rippling waters sparkled clear, 
Then up through tufts of mountain grass 
Toward the far summit of the pass; 

And, marking time with graceful spring, 
He made the terraced canyon ring 
With all that canine tongue could voice 
Of things that make the heart rejoice. 

Another dog as swiftly ran, 

But on his tail he bore a can; 

And in that can the secret lay 
Of all the speed he made that day. 

He feared the can; he feared his tail; 
He feared the echo of his wail; 

For when he twisted toward the rear 
He saw his cause of action near. 

What matters it how fast we go 
Through tangled weeds of weary woe 
If every struggling step is strife 
Against pursuing ills of life? 

There is no rapid pace that kills 
When there’s a cherished hope that fills 
The heart with life; but death is due 
When we have nothing to pursue. 


87 


PROBATION 

When their married life exploded 
They discovered it was loaded 
With potencies they didn’t know were there. 
They were hedged with limitations 
And with ownership relations 

That man imposes on a married pair. 

How they longed for legislation 
That would give emancipation 

From matrimonial strife and discontent; 

That would make the married station 
A conditional relation 

Depending on their mutual consent. 

Now, if both were on probation 
They’d review the situation; 

Each wond’ring if the other could be led 
To desire a life extension— 

But they’d view with apprehension 
The many things they wish they’d never said. 


88 


PROBATION 


She’d examine her complexion; 

He’d restrain his harsh inflection, 

Lest Cupid with his glances swift and bold, 
Would divert their fond affection 
In some contraband direction, 

And let the dove of peace escape their fold. 

Then when hubby came home early 
She would smooth his hair so curly, 

And place his slippers near the easy chair; 
Till from pate to solar plexus 
He would swell with joy infectious, 

To resurrect his check book then and there. 

Then the wife would with elation, 

Get a beautiful creation 

That milliners so artfully compile, 

And become the admiration 
Of the entire congregation, 

And gracefully go marching up the aisle. 

Let’s give each some occupation, 

And the same remuneration, 

Where Mammon has no mortgage on their life. 
For an equal chance of earning 
To appease a present yearning, 

Removes their most insistent cause of strife. 


89 


PROBATION 


With no shackles left on Cupid 
They would see how very stupid 
To tolerate an attitude of strife; 

They’d adjust each matter pronto, 

For they neither one would want to 
Exterminate the greatest good in life. 

Now don’t raise the question whether 
Those whom Love has joined together 
Would ever lose their heads and start to roam; 
For there’s no domestic battle 
Between Hell and hot Seattle 
Could last where Love is master of the home. 

Not the fence they can’t get over 
Keeps the piglets in the clover; 

It’s love of right conditions holds them there. 
But restrained in bonds unholy 
It will dawn upon them slowly 
To break away and seek a cleaner lair. 

Now don’t let some committee 
Eat its heart all out with pity 
Lest other people’s children miss a meal; 

For there’s something else they’re needing 
And for which their hearts are bleeding 
That bread alone can never make them feel. 


90 


PROBATION 


They’d be better in an alley 
Where the little gamins rally 

To eat the crust of poverty in peace, 

Than when filled with milk and honey 
In a palace lined with money 
Where cruel words and hatred never cease. 


Give the state an occupation 
Raising children for the nation, 

Unhampered by the sins of man and wife; 
Then each child will grow up cleaner, 

And more just in its demeanor, 

To live a more constructive, useful life. 


Then when two wish liberation 
From a galling situation 
They part without a sorrow or a tear; 
Not compelled to lie like thunder 
When they cut the bond asunder. 

Nor run away to Reno for a year. 


91 


A BOY’S VIEW 


The festal board was laden 
With all dainty things to eat, 

From frosted cakes and celery 
To the toothsome turkey meat. 

"And now, O Lord, we thank Thee,” 
Said the parent’s solemn voice, 

"For these our many blessings 
We would praise Thee and rejoice.” 

But little Joe was silent 
When his father ceased to pray, 

For he had killed a robin 

In his childish sport that day. 

His heart was heavy laden, 

For his bosom still was rent 
With burning recollections 
Of paternal chastisement. 

He wondered if the Father 
Who would "Note the sparrow’s fall” 
Was keeping track of poultry, 

Or of cattle in the stall. 

And if He loves the robin, 

With his song so clear and sweet, 
Why don’t He care for turkeys 
And the things we kill to eat? 


92 


THE PROFITEER 

He grinned behind his greedy palm 
In joyous contemplation 
Of treasure won and plans begun 
For future exploitation. 

The war was o'er and no one more 
Would purchase his munitions. 

Except the state to regulate 
Industrial conditions. 

He decked his lair with hide and hair 
Of coin-depleted nations, 

While serf and crown he still held down 
With endless obligations. 

He smiled and told how Europe’s gold 
He got for his creations, 

While she went back to hold the sack 
For future generations. 


93 


THE PROFITEER 


Stern Mars with helmet in his hand 
Was slouching like a loafer 
Outside his guarded office door 
To beg a job as chauffeur. 

Miss Lust was his stenographer— 

He thought she looked bewitchin’— 
While Venus with an apron on 
Was working in his kitchen. 

Sweet Cupid held a broken bow 
And mourned the many sorrows 
Of those who toiled, of love despoiled 
By hunger-haunted morrows. 

“The World,” said he, “must come to me 
And purchase my permission 
Before they start in any part 
To alter their condition. 

I'll wave my patriotic wand 
To keep my debtors toiling, 

(My censor’s thumb will hold them dumb, 
And keep the job from spoiling,) 

And organize the human race 
I’ve bound with obligations; 

Then have the press proclaim the mess 
A pious League of Nations. 


94 


THE PROFITEER 


In strong duress I hold the press 
’Neath thumb of my advisers— 

To make her sing I pull the string 
That holds her advertisers. 

To orthodox salvation plants 
I have no strong objection; 

For what they preach, and live and teach 
Just suits me to perfection. 

I may decide to open wide 
The gates to immigration, 

And then bring in my friend Ah Sin 
To help me bleed the nation; 

Or else I’ll make the women take 
The toil, in my ambition 
To own the earth, and use its worth 
To strengthen my position. 

When Congress gets inquisitive 
And talks investigation, 

I use the magic power of gifts 
To soothe the situation. 

The tax collector I escape 
Through clerical devices 
That safe protect and help collect 
My patriotic prices. 


95 


THE PROFITEER 


But yet I fear the time is near 
When some precocious nation 
Will learn that gold is not the mould 
That formed the whole creation. 

So when at last my day has passed 
ril quit the world I shivered. 

And start again in that domain 
Where damned are all delivered.” 


96 


TEACHERS 

A pessimist with mouldy mind 
Reviewed the sins of humankind, 

And spoke in deep didactic tone 
Of “Wrath to come” for “Hearts of stone.” 
Some hesitated near the spot; 

Some passed him by and heard him not. 

The friendless poor came to his side, 

Then went their way unsatisfied. 

An optimist moved with the throng, 

His eye a hope, his voice a song. 

His love leaped forth to foul or good; 

He lived the life of brotherhood. 

And busy Manhood paused awhile 
To learn the lesson of his smile, 

And Childhood brushed aside a tress 
To mirror back his happiness. 


97 


LAUGHTER 

I bear on my wings those enjoyable things 
That the sunlight whispers about; 

I banish the fear and I cherish the cheer, 

And I put the devils to rout. 

When trials come in with their troublesome grin, 
With a joke I put them to flight. 

I flutter the reins till I drive out the pains, 

And the heart gives way to delight. 

1 send on the run with his head full of fun, 
Ever)/ school boy bound for his play; 

1 toss up the curls of the lighthearted girls 
On a picnic or holiday; 

I rise from the ribs of the rollicking romp; 

And I tickle the toes that dance; 

I ripple and trill till the heart is athrill 
And thoughts that are kind have a chance. 


98 


LAUGHTER 


When lovers desert and her feelings are hurt, 

1 just flutter her diaphragm 

Till sorrows depart, and she sings with a heart 
So light she don’t care a-“Sam, 

Lay out my new clothes and my transparent hose. 
I’ll show them I’m happy,” says she. 

The saucy-eyed maid! She went out on parade 
And caught other fish from the sea! 

I shake up the lungs of the serious ones 
Till dignity loses its grip; 

I come to her aid till the prudish old maid 
Relaxes to limber her lip; 

I sit in the chair with the fat and the fair 
And rouse her internals to play; 

I rattle their hide till the shriveled and dried 
Have cackled their cares all away. 

I light up the face of the whole colored race 
To ring out my tones on the air; 

I cheer them along as I mingle with song, 

And lighten the burden they bear; 

I float o’er the camp of both tourist and tramp 
Till solitudes echo again; 

I steal like a thief from the visage of grief 
The traces of failure and pain. 


99 



LAUGHTER 


I’ve brightened a page on the mern’ry of age; 

I’ve soared from the lips of a child; 

Pve eased the restraint of the orthodox saint 
Till preachers have sparingly smiled; 

I’ve drawn from the hoard that a miser has stored 
The price of some frivolous toy; 

Pve poked at their side till the pillars of pride 
Have threatened to shatter with joy. 

We love to be near when the world is in cheer. 

And absent in care and in grief. 

The heart that will dare breathes a joy on the air; 

But he who complains is a thief. 

The blessings of earth may be drawn by our mirth, 
But not by our faltering tears; 

I’d rather be bad with a heart that is glad 
Than righteous with doubts and with fears. 


UNDER THE BANYAN 


Beneath a Banyan tree one day 
An ancient sage sat by the way 
Where mortals passing to and fro 
Bear joy and sorrow as they go. 

Then, bowed beneath a heavy load, 

A weary traveler on the road 
Attracted by the sage’s smile 
Threw down his pack to rest awhile. 

“My friend, what hoard of treasures rare,” 
The sage enquired with pleasing air, 

“Did kindly fate on you bestow 
To carry everywhere you go?” 

“True, fate has placed upon my back 
The load I bear along the track 
Of Life,” the traveler replied, 

“I always keep it by my side; 

But it contains no treasures rare; 

It is not even passing fair. 

It holds my troubles and my fears 
From long ago to future years.” 


101 


UNDER THE BANYAN 


The sage with sunshine in his eye 
Said to him, “Won’t you please untie 
That sack that’s filled with bogies rare 
And let them have a little air, 

And if you air them in the sun 
I’ll help repack them one by one.” 

Then when the pilgrim would resume 
His journey with his load of gloom 
The sage suggested that he see 
If in his pack there might not be 
Some useless weight that he would find 
Might just as well be left behind. 

Now when they had them spread about 
And looked at them to sort them out 
They found a soggy sorrow cold 
With years and tears, and must and mold. 

“Why do you carry this about?” 

The sage enquired, and then spoke out: 

“If you such refuse would destroy 
You’d have more room to carry joy.” 

Then next they found a host of fears 
That groped ahead for future tears, 

With care securely laid away 
All wrapped in worries of today. 


102 


UNDER THE BANYAN 


The traveler at last could see 
The sage was right, and that if he 
Forgot the past and lived today 
And let tomorrow keep away 
Until tomorrow’s sun was here 
There might not be so much to fear. 

Then casting off his load of care 
He turned to see a vision fair 
Who beckoned as she led the way 
Among the roses of today. 

Where happy thought to action leads 
And grief is lost in kindly deeds. 

Then all the smothered hopes of years 
Rose up to shame his puny fears, 

And eager as a little child 
He turned towards the sage and smiled. 
With load no longer on his back 
He never paused to take his sack, 

But started on with swinging stride 
And Joy was marching by his side. 


103 




WELLS 

PRESS 



LONG BEACH 
CALIFORNIA 




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